‘The mill? But it’s … old!’
A smile spreads across my face. I’m saying what I’ve been thinking since we got home just under a month ago. While I was planning and organising the party that Pete wanted for ouranniversary, all I’ve thought about is standing beside the mill and that I didn’t want to leave.
Monsieur Martin turns down the corners of his mouth and I fear for the cigarette. Somehow, against the odds, it hangs on determinedly. And why not?
‘So, I’d like to rent the room, if I can, until I’m ready to move.’
He opens the door to the mid-terrace townhouse wider, eyeing me suspiciously. He peers out of the door, left and then right. ‘Your ’usband?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s just me,’ I say, and make a decision for the new me, tomorrow’s me. I revert back to my full name. Not the one Pete called me by, not Jules. ‘I’m Juliet,’ I say, and start to give my surname, my married name, but then say, ‘Just Juliet.’
He turns to his wife, sitting in the front room at the table there. She nods. ‘Okay, Just Juliet,’ he says. ‘Oui, the room is available.’ He begins to list his rules in fast French, just like he did when Pete and I checked in last month. Before everything changed. Before the anniversary party. Before I felt I needed to find me … here in a small town, in France, in a littlechambre d’hôtein the middle of the French countryside with a cockerel to wake me every morning. It didn’t make Pete smile. He wanted to leave … or wring its neck.
‘And no guests,’ he adds, handing me the key.
‘I promise, no guests.’ I smile. ‘It’s just me from now on.’ I move my belongings in, eager to get back to the old mill, find the for-sale sign and ring the telephone number.
Chapter 3
Iopen my purse, see a single euro and smile. It catches in the early June sunlight. I’ve been here for eight weeks now and have adjusted to euros not pounds, but with not much call for cash, these days, I’ve only got a few coins and notes. But I do have a euro, and that is very good. I smile, because a euro is exactly what I need.
I plan to go over to the old mill and have a picnic on the lawn next to the lake. Atmyold mill, I think, and smile to myself. I contemplate the key in my bag and the handshake I shared with thenotaireonce the final paperwork was signed. My initial reaction was to hug him – I was so overjoyed that the mill was finally mine, signed, sealed and paid for at an incredible price. But the horror on his face as I threw open my arms told me that wasn’t the right reaction, so I gripped his hand and shook it. Maybe a little over-enthusiastically.
I’m ready to move out of my little room at thechambre d’hôte, where I’ve been for the last eight weeks under the curious eyes of its owners, Monsieur and Madame Martin, wondering why I would buy a run-down old mill in the very quiet Village du Grand Lac. I’ve been filling my days exploring other towns and villages nearby, getting to know the lie of the land, market days, visitingbrocantesand planning how I want the mill to look when I turn it into asalon de thé. I’ve also done lots of online research while drinking coffee in cafés. And, of course, I’m learning French online and eatingplat du jourlunches in small restaurants on my own. Not that I minded that: I was usedto it. I’d known it was the beginning of the end when Pete and I stopped eating together. He preferred ready meals by a big-brand producer from the supermarket, but I liked the veg box we had delivered. I made soups and stews from it, filling the freezer with batch cooking, as you do when you’re cooking for one. It was just a habit we slipped into.
But it was our holiday to France that brought things to a close for Pete and me. A crossroads. It was supposed to be a celebration of the end of my treatment, waking up here in Brittany, looking out over the fields feeling more alive than I ever have, but something between Pete and me had died. I wanted to grab life, live it for the now. He wanted to carry on as normal … whatever normal was. Go back to how we were before I got the diagnosis. Pretend it never happened and it had just gone away. I wanted to do everything I’d never done.
So, we could never have bought the old mill. But I did!
I texted the family WhatsApp group when I came out of thenotaire’s office and sent a picture of the big metal key.
No going back now then!said Maddie.
When can we visit?said Jake.
Whenever you want and I cannotwait!
Pete sent a thumbs-up, which was good. I know he meant it.
I messaged Annie too:Well, I’ve done it. I have the key. I own an old watermill in France. I’m scared and thrilled! I’m going to have lunch beside the lake, on my lawn! I can’t believe it!
Eek!she replied.Me neither! That is amazing! Send pictures! I want to see what it looks like. I want to imagine myselfthere!
Iwill!
So this is it. I’m here, with the key. I’ve acquired the mill in good time, I’m told, at a good price, it having been on the market for several years. It had been sold by themairie, the town hall, after years of standing empty. The mayor was insistent the sale be straightforward and quick.
So here I am, eight weeks on from arriving on 1 April, the key in my handbag, in the square at Village de Grand Lac, standing under the shade of the line of plane trees facing each other just beyond thepétanquepitch. There is a smalltabacbut not much else, which may be a good thing as my idea for the old mill and thesalon de thébegins to grow. It’s lunchtime and the village is deserted, apart from a white cat with brown and black patches on its back, lying out in the sun in front of the oldboulangerie. People visiting will need somewhere to eat. Maybe I could get some signs done, pointing out of the village and directing them on the ten-minute walk down the lane to the mill. All I need to do now is take my idea to the mayor, explain my plans for my business and apply for a visa to stay on and work. Looks like they could do with more businesses around here, more places for people to eat. I’m sure my idea will be just right for the mill and the village.
I turn and stare at the vending machine in front of me, opposite thetabacby the parking spaces. This is a first for me. In the neighbouring town there is aboulangeriewhere I bought croissants every morning and a baguette for lunch. The bread was good, but the woman behind the counter barely smiled. Here, in this smaller village, theboulangerieis shut, the yellowing blinds firmly down with a closed sign on the door. Instead, there is this: a vending machine selling fresh baguettes.
I can read the instructions, written in French, thanks to my online lessons and recent Duolingo streak. I slide my euro into the slot. My stomach rumbles at the smell of the goat’s cheese I bought from a farmhouse between here and the town where I’ve been staying, along with some fresh tomatoes from a stall on the side of the road. Their grassy smell reaches my nostrils and tantalises my tastebuds.
I hear the euro drop onto other coins in the machine and lift the flap waiting for my bread to drop. I watch as the baguetteshakes behind the glass. It shakes some more and then, when I frown and wonder if I’m going to get my bread, the whirring noise stops.
‘It hasn’t dropped!’ I say to the machine, and lift the flap. ‘You didn’t drop my baguette!’ I say. I give the machine a little nudge to see if my baguette will fall out. But nothing moves.
I give the glass a gentle knock, but the bread still doesn’t move.
